


Prayers of Carrion

by MercuryPilgrim



Series: Prayers of Carrion [1]
Category: Star Wars Legends: The Old Republic (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dark Side Jedi Knight - Freeform, Falling to the Dark Side, Sith Rituals, Torture, but not painless, dark side, is easy, no one is nice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-02
Updated: 2020-10-02
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:28:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26780665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MercuryPilgrim/pseuds/MercuryPilgrim
Summary: That's the thing about Falling.It's so, so easy.
Relationships: Hinted, Male Jedi Knight | Hero of Tython/Lord Scourge
Series: Prayers of Carrion [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1952653
Comments: 2
Kudos: 13





	Prayers of Carrion

Overseer Chaskar has seen a lot, in his time.

He barely remembers the days before he joined the privileged few to serve in the Emperor’s fortress.

It's nothing special when they drag in some Jedi, delirious and bound with Force inhibitors.

They’re a sorry bunch, for what remains of a strike team that managed to breach the sanctum of the Emperor.

Chaskar doesn’t envy them the experience that brought them to this state.

They’re all aliens save two, and his lip curls.

Filthy.

He resolves to put them through a thorough medical to get rid of any diseases.

He inspects them, trying not to get too close.

The Nautolan, Kel Dor and the human are out cold, the barest hint of the Force flickering around them.

The redheaded woman is also unconscious, but her mouth is moving without pause to form soundless words.

The touch of the Emperor is powerful and insidious.

The final one is one of those eyeless things.

A miraluka.

He's somehow not under yet, and Chaskar takes a closer look.

He's solid under that ruined armour, and his skin is the rich tan of someone used to working outdoors. He’s bruised and battered, but far from the worst state Chaskar has seen someone in.

He is clinging onto consciousness, his teeth gritted and mouth twisted into a snarl.

He seems cagey and twitchy, and Chaskar wonders what he felt when the Emperor touched his mind.

He doesn’t seem... all _there_.

“Cage them.” He orders the guards, and he watches as the miraluka’s face snaps towards him as though he has only realised that he was there when he spoke.

Curious, he waves a hand in front of the prisoner’s face.

Nothing.

Strange.

“Jedi,” he tries, and has to wrench his hand back as the Jedi lunges at him.

The choke collar yanks him back and he coughs, shivering on the floor.

Perhaps the Emperor broke one by accident?

At least it wasn’t one of the human ones, he supposes.

The Force splutters around the Jedi, who is defensive on the floor, shivering and turning his head at every small noise.

He looks half feral.

Chaskar nudges at him with the Force, and tastes _rage._

_Oh._

How _delicious._

To taste that fury, that boiling cauldron of _hate_...

It's fascinating.

It's always so _satisfying_ to witness a Fall.

* * *

They separate them, and Chaskar privately hopes he gets assigned to the fun one.

No such luck.

He watches as the Jedi is taken away, head bowed and shoulders tense.

He seems unsteady on his feet, which is strange.

He almost bumps into one of his guards before she shoves him away, and his mouth sets in a grim line.

The drag him away, and Chaskar idly wonders when he will break.

He doesn’t see much of the other Jedi that were brought in, but he hears on the grapevine that the Nautolan already snapped.

Typical alien, to be so weak.

He doesn’t see the Miraluka for a long time.

He would have thought him dead, if not for the steady stream of inquisitors entering the chamber where they keep him, and the screams.

The screams don’t seem to stop, even when his throat grows hoarse and it must have hurt to make a sound.

Chaskar isn’t sure what they’re doing to him in there, but every time he gets close the Force feels so patently _wrong_ that he can’t help but wonder.

There’s chanting, too.

He feels the words in his bones, and he desperately wants to know what rituals they are performing.

He volunteers to bring food, even though such a task is far below his station, and finally gets a look.

They have him chained like an animal, stripped to nothing but tattered leggings, and he hangs there, limp.

He's in the middle of the room on a small dais, grooves cut into the floor running off at sharp, purposeful angles.

It’s a ritual room, and the echoes of the Force ring in his ears.

The grooves are for bloodletting, and just being _in_ here makes his head swim.

The Dark Side is so dense here he is sure he can taste it.

It washes over him, and he revels in it.

They are keeping him in relative darkness since he can’t see anyway, but the lights flicker on when Chaskar steps in.

The guards watch, implacable.

Tables full of implements sit neatly to one side, and Chaskar recognises some of them.

He looks at the Jedi, and for a moment he can’t quite understand what he's seeing.

Every inch of his skin is _crimson_.

For a second, he wonders if they skinned him.

He's wrong.

They’ve _carved_ at him, etching what he can just about make out as Kittât over every inch of his skin.

It's _beautiful._

Blood drips from the points of his body, the script raw and fresh.

They seem to be carving at him over and over, reopening the wounds as soon as they begin to heal.

His arms are pulled away from his body and his head is bowed as he kneels there, his hair hanging over his face as he hangs from his bonds. His wrists and neck are chained, but it doesn’t seem enough, somehow.

He sets the food, mashed ration bars, down and takes a closer look.

His foot makes a noise against one of the channels that is full of old, gelatinous blood, and the Jedi's head snaps up.

Chaskar wrinkles his nose.

They’ve taken the blindfold off, and he is face to face with what should have been a human face, except for the eyes.

There are none, just skin stretched over empty sockets, thin bone under delicate skin.

It’s _foul._

The Jedi can’t seem to see him, but he can hear him.

His cocks his head, straining to hear any sounds.

Chaskar has an epiphany.

Miraluka see using the Force.

The Force inhibitors cut that connection off, and the alien must have been off balance without it.

Taking that connection and tearing it away must have been agonising, and he appreciates innovation where he can see it.

His face is partially covered with the same Kittât script as the rest of him, densely packed words carved into his skin with what must have been the finest of blades.

It starts at his hairline and covers half the right side of his face in a solid wall of text until it reaches his jaw, where it joins the markings on his body. The rest of his face is clear, and it's strange to see unmarred skin.

Chaskar wonders what the markings are for, if anything.

It’s interesting, but he can’t imagine the Jedi will hold out much longer. Soon he will break and then he will be disposed of.

Just witnessing this is enough to fill him with anticipation.

He reaches out to touch the markings on that alien face, and one of the guards makes a warning sound before the Chaskar jerks his hand back from snapping jaws.

The prisoner smiles, showing bloodied teeth, and he grins at where he thinks Chaskar is.

He doesn’t speak, but his bloody smile is more like a snarl.

Chaskar steps away and backs out of the room.

The smell of blood follows him, and the image of that eyeless face haunts his thoughts for a moment.

He wonders what will become of him.

* * *

Chaskar is on duty when he hears it.

The apprentice he is teaching is a sullen thing, dead eyes set in a gaunt face.

They are going over the applications of the Sith Code when they hear heavy, booted footsteps and a panicked voice echoing down the corridor.

Two guards march past the corridor, carrying a struggling slave. It’s some fish creature, and Chaskar feels a shiver of repulsion at the multitude of tentacles growing from its head.

The slave is jabbering something in its native tongue, and Chaskar wrinkles his nose at the sound of the words.

One guard opens the door to the ritual room, and they bundle the terrified slave inside before stepping in themselves.

There is silence for some time and Chaskar resumes his lecture.

Then, the screams start.

He almost ignores it after savouring the first opening peals, before he realises that it sounds… off.

The howls are not the hoarse and rasping ones of the prisoner, and he’s about to wonder what is happening when the door bursts open and the slave surges out, splashed with blood, and petrified. It stumbles and runs, and Chaskar throws a burst of electricity at it to stop it escaping. It collapses in a heap with a pained shriek, and he ignores it.

A sense of pervading _dread_ is emanating from the ritual room, and the Force is shivering.

He hasn’t felt something this potent in a long time. The apprentice is backing away, his thin shoulders shaking as he struggles to stay quiet.

It’s so dense it’s hard to breathe, but he bolsters himself with the Force and rushes for the door.

Something is wrong.

Was it a ritual gone awry?

There is a scramble and one of the guards throws himself through the opening, nearly knocking Chaskar over in the process. He almost smashes the console in his haste to close the door, his fingers shaking and unsteady.

He is breathing hard with his eyes are blown wide and Chaskar can smell the fear from him.

Concerned, Chaskar frowns.

The guard is splattered with blood, and they can both hear the screams and the sound of shearing metal behind them.

The other guard is nowhere to be seen.

The guard closes his eyes, back to the door like he’s holding off an invasion.

The room goes silent, and the absence of sound is weightier than the noise.

The guard swallows and looks pained.

Chaskar frowns and wondered if he hadn’t been wrong about what they were doing to that Jedi.

* * *

It’s quiet, and Chaskar can’t stand it.

A steady procession of inquisitors has been going into the room, but now only silence emanates from it.

No screams.

No sounds of metal on metal.

No chanting.

Nothing.

He had been ordered to stop food supplies, and it’s been weeks.

The heavy feeling of dread seems to stretch further, now.

A week ago, he felt shivers down his spine when he walked past the ritual room.

Now, he feels it halfway across the training area opposite.

It's _spreading_.

It lingers at the edge of his consciousness at all times now, and it makes it difficult to concentrate.

After a month, he can get no respite from it no matter where he is.

The feeling pervades the entire floor, and keeping focused is difficult.

The Jedi has not eaten in a long time.

The inquisitors still go in and come out looking tired and wan, so he assumes they’re still doing whatever they’re doing to the Jedi.

Or his corpse, potentially.

Then, out of the blue, he gets orders to bring food.

Mashed ration bars again, but only half of what he used to bring.

Anticipation and something else curl in his belly, and the heavy feeling gets stronger the closer he gets to the heavy door.

A dead-eyed guard opens it for him, and follows him in.

The stench of blood is overwhelming.

The feeling of the Force is physically painful.

The prisoner is still on the dais, but now they have him only collared, and he kneels as though in deep meditation. He looks thin and gaunt now, but the Force must have sustained him because he should have been dead.

Chaskar thought he had been cut off from the Force.

He doesn’t want to take a closer look at that collar to find out.

His skin is a mass of pale scarring, and Chaskar can’t help but stare.

He leaves the food one of the tables, and the sound the bowl makes against the metal makes the Jedi twitch.

Chaskar doesn’t stay, and he tells himself that he’s too busy.

* * *

They put him in the arena.

They don’t give him a weapon; they just drag him out of the ritual room and throw him into the sandy pit.

He picks himself up slowly, the sand sticking to his filthy skin.

The scars are thrown into sharp relief by the lights, and Chaskar can see his ribs all put poking through his flesh.

They’ve tied some scrap of fabric around his face, and Chaskar is relieved he doesn’t have to look that hideous eyeless visage without it.

The collar is still around his neck, but there is no chain attached now.

Something about that worries him.

The Jedi staggers for a moment, turning his head at every noise.

The Sith they push into the arena is shaking, and Chaskar can feel her terror from where he stands, watching from the safety of the raised viewing mezzanine.

She ignites her practice blade and her hands shake, and she takes a step back when the sound makes the Jedi’s head snap to her.

For a moment, neither of them moves.

The apprentice looks about ready to bolt, and Chaskar vaguely remembers an apprentice matching her description failing her master’s trial.

This must have been the punishment.

A knife edge of indecision seems to stretch for an age, before she lets out a cry that’s more terror than rage and throws herself at the Jedi.

He doesn’t move until she's on him.

One moment he has the apprentice bearing down on him, and the next she's howling and clutching her arm while he grips her blade.

Without pause, he swings and her head falls to the ground moments before her body does.

He stands still.

Slowly, he raises the blade and, arm straight, points it at them, his expression stony.

That’s a _challenge_.

Chaskar wonders of the approval he can feel around him is wise.

* * *

They throw him in the arena again and again.

It's become a bit of a game between the Overseers, betting on who will last the longest.

No one ever bets on _winners_ anymore.

There's not a lot of point.

The Jedi has torn apart anything thrown in there with him, and Chaskar can’t help but be _fascinated._

He gets fed if he wins, which means he's regaining some weight after his long stint using only the Force to sustain himself.

Today, they’re watching him against one of the captured Jedi.

The older human is ragged and twitchy, and his arms seem too frail to even hold the blade they’ve given him.

It's an old warblade, sharp but hardly able to stand up to a lightsaber.

He's staring.

“Beryon,” he murmurs, his gaunt face slack with horror. “What have they _done_ to you?”

The Jedi looks half feral.

The scars on his skin have healed completely now, and they cover almost every inch of him in script.

His once tanned complexion is fading after months of captivity, and the ratty piece of black fabric over his eyeless face is still present, his lank hair falling in front of it.

The collar sits around his throat, secure.

It's a heavy thing, all leather and metal. The choke chain has been removed for now, and Chaskar doesn’t like seeing him without it.

“Warren,” the Jedi rasps, and his voice is hoarse and low. His words sound like they’re scraping over his vocal chords as he speaks them.

The older Jedi, Warren, flinches.

Chaskar doesn’t know what they others have been doing to him, but he looks drained and tired.

Warren's hands are shaking, although it’s not from fear.

“He's in my mind,” the older man mumbles, voice low and panicked. “You hear him too, don’t you? _He's_ _screaming in my ears.”_

He gives a violent twitch, his head twisting to one side so violently Chaskar was sure he had broken his neck.

“He's pouring his words into my ears,” he moans, and it only just carries far enough for them to hear. “And they’re coming out of my mouth. _I can feel their little legs on my tongue._ ”

Their Jedi, Beryon, tilts his head.

Behind him, Chaskar feels a presence settle, and he turns.

Baleful crimson eyes meet his own as Lord Scourge stares him down, and Chaskar bows his head quickly, turning away.

There is a prickle on the back of his neck, knowing that the Wrath was behind him, leaning against the wall like he had nothing better to do that watch two Jedi tear each other apart for sport.

“Warren,” the Jedi rasps again, but the older Jedi doesn’t hear him. “Snap out of it.”

Scourge makes a noise in his throat, and Chaskar decides to pretend he didn’t hear anything.

“The Emperor's hold on the older one is strong,” the pureblood murmurs, and Chaskar can’t ignore him any longer. “He's weak.”

Chaskar nods.

He could see that himself.

“The other one-"

“Is a special case.” Scourge interrupts, eyes on the arena. “The Emperor wants him.”

Chaskar looks at the Jedi with fresh eyes.

Chosen by the Emperor?

An honour.

“Why?” he asks, needing to know. “He's a _Jedi.”_

Scourge shakes his head imperceptibly.

“When the Emperor touched his mind, he fought him.” He said softly. “He's powerful. The Emperor wants him caged.”

And that was that.

In the arena, the older Jedi was pointing his blade at their Jedi, his hold wavering.

“Is _that_ what they did to him?” he asks without thinking, watching how the light plays against the words carved into the Jedi's flesh.

Scourge rumbles from behind him.

Chaskar takes that as an affirmative.

* * *

Scourge watches him.

He's the one, he's sure of it.

Or, he _was_.

He's... wilder than expected.

There's an undercurrent of fury there, when they first bring him in, shackled and half mad with exposure to the Emperor's mind.

They’ve cut him off from the Force and Scourge watches how distressed it makes the Jedi.

It's disappointing.

The inquisitors mutter something about rituals and he stops listening.

Perhaps he had been wrong, he thinks as he watches the Jedi float in the tank, twitching as his mind is violated again and again.

If Scourge was capable of such things, he thinks he would probably feel pity.

* * *

The screams don’t bother him.

The growing presence in the Force _does_.

It's a twisted thing, beaten raw and salted until it's a vicious spike of hate in his consciousness whenever he gets close to the ritual room turned cell.

It starts off subtle, but it grows and grows like it's eating everything around it.

The Jedi hasn’t broken yet.

He's impressed.

The Emperor invades his mind over and over again, shredding his psyche and pouring his power into him until the Jedi chokes on it.

Scourge can feel it.

Every day, the presence grows sharper and heavier, until merely walking past the door is like swimming through broken glass.

The Inquisitors chant and focus power into him, as they carve at his skin, using the blood to power their spell.

They are _conditioning_ him.

Scourge catches a phrase here and there, spoken in Kittât _._

_Kneel before the dragon._

The screams turn hoarse and weak, and eventually they stop all together.

The inquisitors continue to enter the cell, so he assumes the Jedi is still alive in there.

He finally gives in.

He goes to look and sees him hanging from his chains, kneeling on the ritual dais.

His blood drips sluggishly from his wounds, creeping slowly down the channels running away from him.

Scourge watches him as he hangs there, and tastes resistance in the Force.

The Jedi isn’t broken, then.

He turns to leave.

Perhaps if he’s still alive when they are done with him, he will be worth his time.

* * *

The sand of the arena is bloated with blood.

The stink of it rises to catch in throats and burn eyes, but Scourge has never been the sort to cover his nose.

He watches the Jedi as he fights.

They’ve tossed some beast he doesn’t recognise in there, some mutation of a Sithspawn, and he observes as the Jedi guts it, black blood flowing down his arm as it dies on his blade.

He’s an impressive specimen, he admits as the Jedi uses a foot to prize the dead thing off his blade, which he cleans with a flick.

He’s filthy and half-dead from whatever rituals they’ve put him through, but he’s tearing whatever they send against him apart.

Scourge can feel the rage in him, the darkness roiling at the edges of his senses, but all he can think about is the Emperor’s whispers.

What would come out of that mouth, he wonders?

Until he can be sure it’s not the Emperor’s voice, he will do nothing.

* * *

During the battle with the Emperor, it's a blur.

After it, it’s nothing he can describe.

_“You will obey.”_

The words ring in his head like tolling bells, and it’s all he can do to think of anything else.

Dreams and reality morph into a single nightmarish vision, and his thoughts wade through tar.

He surfaces sometimes, like a drowning man choking in a breath before he slips under the waves again.

He dimly recalls hands on him, pulling and plucking at his armour and clothes, but his limbs are like lead and his mind feels squeezed so tight it hurts to do anything but lie there.

He can’t see, and a feeling close to panic chokes him.

Cool metal on the skin of his wrists, and his arms bound high, so he hangs from them.

He can’t _see_ anything.

_“You will obey.”_

Every thought is warped until it’s that one, with that voice ringing in his ear.

Fog curls over his mind and he can barely remember his own name.

Did he have one of those?

Why?

Who would need a name here?

He was cut off from everything, locked within his own mind.

With all other stimuli blocked, the only thing to focus on was the feeling of saturated _darkness._

Power, poured into him until it filled him up and there was no space inside him for anything else.

_“You will obey.”_

But he doesn’t, because he never has.

A vague feeling of age-old rebellion slithers in through cracks he didn’t know where there, and tells the power to _fuck off._

He dimly recalls disapproving stares in a sunlit room, the light catching the accents on the table and the metal of the holoprojectors.

He always had been a bit of a rebel.

The power doesn’t so much as nudge as try to bludgeon him.

He refuses to bend.

He doesn’t really know why he's resisting, only that it feels natural.

He _needs_ to.

He has a feeling that if he didn’t fight, if he _gave in_ then he would be wiped away.

Whatever made him _him_ would be purged and his shell would be left behind.

It's a primal fear of non-existence, and it burns in him.

Some ancient flight-or-flight response stirring in the depths of his ruined mind, putting up a last fight against an invader.

Then, all he knew was _pain._

* * *

He doesn’t recall the concept of time anymore.

It's an endless cycle of pain and confusion.

Voices fill his ears, chanting in a language he doesn’t know.

He feels the Force shiver under the weight of the words.

Everything smells like blood.

He still can’t _see_.

The Force is cut off, and it makes him afraid.

He can feel it deep inside him, but it stops at his throat and his wrists, as though a gate had been closed.

He can’t sense anything, and _he can’t see._

The chanting makes the voice louder.

_“You will obey.”_

It becomes a roar in his head that nothing does can quieten, and sometimes it feels like would rather cut his own head off than have to endure this much longer.

But he can’t do that.

His hands are bound.

Aren’t they?

He's so _hungry._

He doesn’t know if he's slept at all, but if he has then it's no different to his waking hours.

Pain, and the presence in his mind that pushes everything else out.

He hates it.

The voice that whispers and screams in his mind is the focus of such unsullied loathing that it warms his bones.

He latches onto the feeling because it's his and it’s so strong that embracing it makes everything a little muted, like water rushing in his ears.

He throws himself into it, and revels in the fire of it all.

Fury.

Hate.

Rage.

He can’t tell what in his is his mind and what is _other_ , but he feels those are _his_.

He knows dimly that he's not supposed to feel them but they're the only respite he can get.

He's never been good with emptiness; he remembers that much.

Too quick to snap, too slow to forgive.

They keep him company, and he holds onto them with desperate fingers.

* * *

They throw him into a pit and make him kill, and it’s easy.

It lets his mind go blank and focus on battle, sloppy as it is now his limbs don’t do what he wants them to.

The clarity he gets when he fights is nothing less than _euphoric._

A sense of self trickles in when he's got his feet in the blood-soaked sand, and he feels like he can _breathe._

They let him _see._

He's alive, and the old blade in his hands makes him feel good. Almost like himself again.

They send some Sith against him, and he relishes her fear.

Her head hits the sand and he basks in the power that gives him, after having been stripped of it for so long. He doesn’t feel much else. After all, it was only a Sith.

He points the blade at where he can feel the observers, and revels in the challenge.

Soon they’ll put him under again, but this moment is special.

It's _his_.

* * *

They put him in the pit again and again, and the more he wins the more he gets fed.

It's a tasteless mash of something he doesn’t care about, but he wolfs it down regardless.

He runs his fingers over his own skin and feels the raised scar tissue under the pads of his fingers.

It feels like script, but he can’t read it.

He can only read Basic Braille and Raised Huttese, and this isn’t either of them.

He runs his hands over his body, feeling the scars.

They’re delicate.

He hates them.

The next time they throw him in the arena, he takes his time with the Sithspawn they send to him.

It's cathartic, and he feels more himself than he has done in a long time.

He feels attention on him, more potent than the gaggle of Overseers that like to place bets on his matches.

He wishes they would end up in the arena, so he can tear them apart.

It's a dark presence, but it _burns_ in a way he is drawn to.

It's bright enough to make room for itself through the oppressive blanket of the Emperor's presence, and he wonders who it is.

He prizes the beast off the end of the half dull blade they’ve given him, hearing the viscera inside sucking at the metal as he extracts it, and lets it fall to the sodden sand.

He flicks the blade, and he can hear where gobbets of blood land.

He feels a vicious kind of joy as the blood burns his skin and wonders why he feels more alive now than he had ever done before.

* * *

_“You will obey.”_

No, he will _not_.

Lucidity is coming more often now, and they seem pleased with him.

He plays his part, pretends that he's still the husk they want him to be.

He's Jedi.

He tells himself that over and over again until he almost starts to believe it again.

* * *

Warren is in front of him, and he _feels something._

He had started to wonder if anything before the Sanctum even existed at all. If there was anything outside these walls.

But Warren is here, and he knows him.

“Beryon,” he breathes in horror, “What have they done to you?”

Beryon.

That’s his _name._

He can feel Warren, or at least, he can feel what is passing itself off as Warren.

He vaguely recalls thinking the older man felt like sunlight, even if he can’t remember what that feels like now.

Now, his presence is like thorns in tar.

The arena always let him breathe.

“Warren,” he tries, and it feels so strange to open his mouth for anything but a scream. The movements feel strange and his throat hurts as he speaks. It's like the sand under his feet got into his mouth and scratched his insides. “Snap out of it.”

He knows he won’t be able to.

He can feel the vice hold the Emperor has on him, attuned to that presence as he is now.

Warren Sedoru is barely more than a puppet.

He’s gone, or he soon will be.

When the older Jedi swings his blade at him, he doesn’t let it connect.

There’s something charged in the air, as though this is the moment before a lightning strike.

Their blades clash, but he doesn’t bring himself to strike.

Not yet.

It… hurts.

The idea of it makes his chest tight and a feeling of profound _loss_ take of residence there.

Warren swings again, and he had never been the most combat orientated of them, even before he had been reduced to… this.

He reaches out and tastes _pain_.

Horror.

Guilt.

He catches the blade on his own and forces its owner down by sheer strength. Frail and tired, Warren can’t do much but buckle under him and sink to the sand.

He looks up, eyes stained amber with darkness and pain.

“Please,” he whispers, voice cracked and papery. “Don’t let him take me again.”

He swallows and it hurts.

He feels so alive right now, so anchored in _this moment_.

Time doesn’t mean anything, and his senses are attuned to everything around him.

The smell of the sand and the blood, the heat of his body and the overhead lamps. The sounds of the life support systems and their breathing.

He can feel the eyes on him.

Warren stares at him, pleading.

“ _Please_.”

He raises his blade and sets it against the papery, sagging flesh of the other Jedi’s neck.

Warren leans into it, and he looks like a man about to rest after a long day.

He breathes in, and then out, slowly. Savouring. He closes his eyes.

“ _Thank you._ ” He murmurs, too low for the watchers to hear. The blade raises, and then scythes down in an arc of bloody mercy, neatly separating the Jedi’s head from his shoulders.

He sees the Force wink out, and something inside him dies at the same moment something else blooms.

The body collapses and he forces himself to move.

He lowers his blade, and he can hear the blood hitting the sand as it drips from the tip.

His sense of self solidifying into something sharp and hard, he drives the blade into the sand and lets it rest there.

_I’m sorry, but I must do this._

He senses approval from the watchers, and a cold kind of satisfaction settles over his being, like sinking into a crystal-clear lake.

_I’ll take them for everything they’ve got._

* * *

The next time Scourge sees him, he’s in the robes of an acolyte.

He’s washed the blood and filth from his skin and his hair is short and clean again.

The fabric over his eyes is the same plain black scrap that they put on him.

He knows his orders.

He must instruct this Jedi.

Scourge doesn’t think he should be called that, any more.

He's the Jedi who stood up to the _Emperor_.

And they’ve made him an _acolyte_.

Scourge’s acolyte, it seems.

He stands very still, as though he's a statue.

Scourge walks around him, inspecting him like he's on the selling block.

“You're here to learn,” he says eventually, and the miraluka's head turns slightly to face him.

It will be interesting, training one of these. Scourge has never before had the opportunity.

He is _sure_ this is the one from his dreams, but doubt is beginning to creep in.

This one _broke_.

How can something weak be the one he has been waiting for?

He can’t test the Jedi overtly, not until he can be sure that it's not the Emperor's voice that will answer him.

No, he will train him and train him well, and he will watch.

* * *

The spirit of Orgus Din can feel his student in the Force, even in this place.

Beryon's presence is bright and frighteningly strong still, but it isn’t until Orgus, of what is left of him, reaches down to brush a tendril of Force over him does he realise that that brightness is not what it once was.

He flinches back, unconsciously drawing his presence around himself as it burns his metaphorical fingertips.

Beryon can’t see him, he's mediating, and Orgus’ heart feels like it clenches even though he doesn’t have one of those any more.

His skin is a mass of elegant scarring, every inch of him save for the left side of his face covered in script.

He can see how it runs in lines down his spine, the bone pushing against skin as he sits in mediation.

Orgus remembers a grim, sarcastic man who was quick to talk back when he shouldn’t, and who cared deeply about _everything_. He recalled issues with temper and controlling his emotions, but Orgus would take that fiery attitude and surly complaining over _this_.

“Oh Beryon,” he breathes without a voice, every part of him aching with pity. “I am so, so sorry.”

The meditating Jedi, and Orgus can’t bear to think of him as anything else, doesn’t hear him.

Of course he doesn’t, Orgus doesn’t want him to.

His presence is _foul._

It's burning fury and rage and a howling, vicious bitterness.

Orgus wants to be physical again so much it hurts, just so he can do _something_.

He had never been the tactile sort in life, but now the urge to gather his student in his arms is overwhelming.

He sheds tears that fade the moment they leave his eyes.

The pain that he feels echoes the ocean of it emanating from his student that cashes against his senses like waves.

Beryon is Fallen, and Orgus can’t bear to think of him hurting here, alone and steeped in darkness.

But if he's truly Fallen, if that man sitting in mediation is not his student any longer but a puppet of the Emperor, he can’t risk it. He wants to bring him back, but they don’t have time.

It hurts to leave.

He wants nothing more than to appear in front of the Jedi who gave everything and comfort him.

Orgus loves him, and he knows it.

It's because he loves him that he lets himself be drawn to another presence.

Let’s himself fade and ride the currents to the side of a young redheaded woman in a cell.

“Help him,” he begs her. “You must help him. He's _Fallen_ and he needs you to bring him back.”

She doesn’t protest, only looks grim and sad and tired and ready to do what she needs to.

Orgus can feel the weakness sapping his form. It's hard to pull yourself together like this.

He begins to fade, unable to hold himself visible.

His sense of self sloughs off as his form turns to nothing.

He can only hope it’s enough.

* * *

It isn’t.

* * *

She cries when she finally has the time, and the ship feels like it’s suffocating her.

The crew, worried and fussing over her, look at her with wide eyes as she sobs.

Doc, grim and tired, gathers her in his arms and takes her to the medbay, setting her down gently and checking her over.

“I left him,” she sobs, and she can’t help it. She’s supposed to be tough. She is. Her mind is battered, she knows that. It hurts. “I couldn’t get him out. I wasn’t strong enough.”

Doc soothes her, and there’s no trace of humour or irreverence now.

“They’ve done something to him,” she breathes. “I promised him I would come back for him.”

Doc just nods and doesn’t try and touch her, which she appreciates. She lets him slip her a sedative and she drifts off in a way that should be terrifying but it isn’t. Memories of that place and his gaunt face swimming in her mind.

She’ll find him again; she knows she will.

She refuses to leave him.

Not again.

* * *

Scourge watches as the woman has to run.

What a powerful little thing, he thinks.

She was so close to reaching him too.

He looks back to the Jedi, whose hands are clenched.

“Would you have gone with her?” he asks and makes sure to keep his voice level. The Jedi doesn’t move his blindfolded face, and Scourge is slowly getting used to conversing with a being that can’t look at him.

“I don’t know.”

He’s surprised, and it must have shown in his presence because the Jedi tilts his head.

“I wanted to,” he murmurs, honest. Scourge supposes that he could have sensed a lie anyway. “But I can’t go back. Not like this.”

Fallen, he means. At least he’s got enough self-awareness to know it.

“The Jedi would kill you.” He supplies, and the Jedi shakes his head.

“No, but I don’t have time for rehabilitation.” He says with a wry smile that looks like it hurts.

“Oh?”

“I’ve got too much work to do.” He says grimly and refuses to elaborate more, but Scourge doesn’t need him to.

What work could he possibly be referring to save his original mission.

Kill the Emperor.

Scourge picks up his blade, and they prepare to spar again.

If he could feel hope, he would have been revelling in it.

“Good,” he says instead, and watches as the Jedi’s brow furrows. “It’s never good to leave business unfinished.”

The Jedi looks cautious, but as their blades meet and they grapple, he feels something reach out and tentatively press against his presence.

He lets it, and he feels a wash of _fury_ that is directed at one man.

Scourge allows the tendril of curious presence to rummage around in his own feelings for a moment, and he makes sure to push the message to the surface.

The feeling of being invaded fades, and the Jedi _smiles_.

* * *

“Lord Scourge, report. Is he progressing well?”

“He is. He is ours, mind and body.”

“Good. Test him.”

“Of course, my lord.”

* * *

He passes with flying colours, blood dripping from his hands as he leads his squad to yet another victory.

He stows his blades and surveys his carnage with dispassionate senses.

He barely recalls what planet this is, and he doesn’t really care.

They’re weak, whoever they are.

He turns and walks away from the ruin that had once been a planetary government building.

The Imperials assigned to him part for him respectfully, and the Lieutenant salutes him.

“A fine job, my lord.”

He nods to her.

He likes her professionalism, and how she doesn’t try and talk to him more than she has to.

* * *

“You’re wasted on petty raids. You will be assigned to the Empire to advance the war effort.”

Scourge watches him digest this news. If it bothers him, being sent away from him and his mark, he doesn’t show it.

“They’re giving you another title to help you move in the Empire.”

At this, he finally gets a smile, crooked and bitter.

“I guess I can’t use my old one.”

Scourge tilts his head, studying him.

“I won’t be coming.”

“I know.”

“I’ll make sure I come and check on your progress, to make sure you’re not _backsliding_.”

The Jedi chuckles, and Scourge appreciates how much better he looks now he’s got the colour back in his skin.

He’s spent all the time he can outdoors, and it shows. It’s been longer than Scourge can credit since he saw him dragged in and he’s looking more like he did back then. A year, easily.

“I think I’m in a little too deep for that.”

“Probably.”

Another grin, and this one is less bitter.

He stands, his armour creaking as he moves.

He’s a small thing, especially compared to Scourge, but he’s solid and strong. He suits the armour.

“Come on,” he says, tone incongruously quiet. “I want to spar again.”

“I don’t have much more to teach you, _Lord_.”

He pauses for only a moment, before he’s stepping back into the ring, light on his feet. He ignites both his blades, and Scourge almost forget what colour he used to wield. The white blades, harsh and cold, suit him.

“Of course you do,” he says with a small, teasing smile, the scars on his face twisting in the bright lights. “Fight me.”

Scourge should say no.

Instead, he stands and steps into the ring.

* * *

Scourge watches as his Jedi kneels in front of the throne.

The Emperor’s presence washes over him, and he doesn’t flinch.

Something uncurls in his belly, and it takes him a moment to place the feeling. Apprehension.

Strange.

The Jedi wasn’t so stupid as to try and take down this Voice, he knew that. The idea of losing such a promising ally was what was making him tense.

That was it.

The miraluka kneels, head bowed, and body held still as though he was made of stone.

The Emperor, or rather the vessel he’s inhabiting, is silent for a long time.

His presence buzzes in their ears, squirming around their heads and turning their tongues to lead.

It’s a loaded moment. An apex of potential.

The Jedi waits, and Scourge can’t bring himself to stop thinking of him like that.

He raises his head, blindfold staring into the abyss of a being in front of him.

A wisp of Force seems to caress his favoured new toy.

Scourge makes sure not to think anything.

The Jedi leans into the touch of putrid presence, needing it. Wanting it.

The Emperor brushes close and withdraws it the moment his toy gets too close.

Like a cruel master torturing a dog with what it'll never he allowed to have, he thinks.

The Emperor seems satisfied, and Scourge can only watch as he reaches out and brushes his fingertips against the Jedi’s jaw to tilt his head up, directing that sightless face upwards.

He murmurs his words like he savours them, like he’s relishing the sight of a ruined, broken thing, made beautiful in its decay.

“Rise, Darth Raptis.”


End file.
